Megafaun
Album: Gather, Form And Fly
Song: Impressions Of The Past
One more retro-hip bearded sad-bastard sighting and I swear I'm gonna puke. Despite that, I really like this band.
The Southern US neo-folk movement has contributed a hell of a lot to my recent listening habits. Sam Beam is the freaking man. Bon Iver is in heavy rotation. Fleet Foxes? Mighty fine. And to that list I must add -- for the genre obsessed -- the country-rockish-folky-bluegrass-jazzy-inflected stylings of the righteously awesome, Megafaun.
This isn't their best song. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a decent video of their brilliant acid-tinged tune, "Kaufman's Ballad"* which re-tells the infamous events surrounding Phil Kaufman and the death of his friend Gram Parsons. (If you're unfamiliar with the story, it's pure comedic badass in the best rock'n'roll tradition. Well worth the read.) Nevertheless, "Impressions of the Past" does a pretty good job of encapsulating the band's diverse output. Enjoy!
Oh yeah, one last thing. Megafaun doesn't have its own Wikipedia entry. We're really digging at the bottom of the barrel.
* Actually, I just watched the live performance of "Kaufman's Ballad" provided in the link...and it's pretty good. But I didn't want to go back and rewrite this post. So you're stuck with the other tune.
sunn o)))
Album: Monoliths and Dimensions
Song: Big Church
If the Stonehenge-building druids were alive today, this is the song they'd party to.
God I love a good drone. Didgeridoo, bagpipe, guitar, voice, you name it; if it drones, I dig it. I think my fascination with this sort of music goes back to the earliest polyphonic music in the Western tradition. For a two month period as a grad student I became fascinated with the music of Perotin, who's considered by some the father of all of Western music. A lot of what he composed is what's known as organum, in which one or more voices sing florid, rhythmic lines over a drone. Here's a famous example:
I dare you not to dig it. Crazy good.
Anyway, my point is that I have always felt an affinity to music that plays against, or emerges from, a drone. Examples abound in the classical canon. My single favorite art song is Schubert's "Der Leiermann" in which the piano drone is evocative of death itself.*** But the drone only became a particularly viable means of expression in the mid-60s in the music of the New York avant-garde. Process music, which also became fashionable in the 60s, also incorporates drones, but usually in much different ways. One way of thinking of the "process" itself is -- perhaps paradoxically? -- as a continuously evolving drone.
Which brings us to the lovely sunn o))). It takes a bit of getting used to their heavy-as-hell meets choir-of-angels concept, but once you let the sound wash over you, once you let that drone ooze its way into your beating heart, once you feel the music as much as listen to it, the experience can be pretty damn intense. Like, in a good way. Late at night, the house asleep, just me and my iPod in the dark, the covers pulled up to my ears, sunn o))) chiseling its way into my psyche. I always have good dreams.
And more bands should incorporate punctuation into their names. Just sayin'.
*** My god. I've just heard the most stunning recording of this song. I'd never heard of this guy until today -- how he managed to creep under my cultural radar is a mystery. Like many musicians, I considered Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau's rendition beyond reproach. But Thomas Quastoff gives him a run for the money. Achingly beautiful.
Wilco
Album: Sky Blue Sky
Song: Side With The Seeds
There are bands, and there are guitarists. Most bands suck, and most guitarists suck. Some bands don't suck, but their guitarists suck. Some bands suck, but their guitarists don't suck.
And then there's Wilco and Nels Cline.
I revisit Wilco's music regularly, mostly because I greatly admire the songwriting abilities of lead singer and guitarist, Jeff Tweedy. Tweedy's interesting musical and lyrical perspective helped Wilco stand apart from its alt-country peers over the last decade: he could turn a sweet phrase, and under his artistic influence the band was willing to explore atypical musical territory. Elements of jazz, hard rock, and experimental music found their way into the music. But even given all of these attributes, it wasn't until the band added lead guitarist Nels Cline on its sixth studio album, Sky Blue Sky, that it reached its artistic potential.
There's nothing worse than a musician more interested in masturbatory excess than in meeting the needs of the song. I've always admired Charlie Watts (Rolling Stones drummer), for example, for his tasteful work. You rarely notice him, but his playing always complements the music beautifully. On the other hand, if you've ever had the misfortune of listening to Paginini's Violin Concerto, I feel your pain. Ridiculous double and triple stops, crazy arpeggiated motives, blindingly fast 16th note sections: it's one long finger exercise masquerading as music. It's what makes watching American or Canadian Idol so annoying, so often: singers who believe that artistry is akin to Celine Dion-style riffing in three octaves on a simple melody. Give me Sarah Harmer, give me someone who actually tries to connect to a song in a meaningful way, any day of the week. (By the way, I'm completely psyched that Harmer is going to be performing at the Regina Folk Festival this year!)
My poster boy for shitty guitar wankery is Yngwie Malmsteen, considered by some the greatest guitarist alive. And it's true, his technique is unrivaled. Watch this:
Pretty amazing stuff, eh? Too bad the entire song exists only to give Malmsteen the opportunity to demonstrate his technical proficiency.
Now watch our song of the day, and notice in particular the way that Nels Cline's solo provides emotional depth and textural and rhythmic definition. There's no way in hell that he could match licks with dear Yngwie, but he's got more musical talent in his guitar pick than Malmsteen has in his entire, ummm, body. Excuse the dumb metaphor.
Crystal Castles
Album: Crystal Castles (II)
Song: Doe Deer
Right. Here we go. And no, I am so not flip-flopping.
Once upon a time, a friend burned me a CD, the eponymously titled Crystal Castles. Released in 2008. Huge critical acclaim. Named 39th best album of the decade by the influential British music periodical NME. Was excited to give it a listen. Cranked up the volume and heard this steaming pile of average. Sigh. Meh. I mean, I didn't hate it. Sure, Depeche Mode did it better 30 years ago, but that's just splitting hairs. I considered it decidedly mediocre. Perhaps fractionally above. Long story short, after listening to the tune a couple more times I put the CD away and focused on, you know, interesting music.
Subsequently I participated in a few Crystal Castles discussions. I argued that the band was relatively boring, that the square time signatures, clichéd synth bass, superfluous 8-bit blurbles, and standard, by-the-books melody and harmony (large swaths of I-IV-V stuff) were better suited to acoustic instruments and folk idioms. I argued that the music was actually terribly conservative.
And then I heard a couple of tracks from their new album, Crystal Castles (II). On switched the light bulb. This, my friends, is fascinating music. Gone are the clichés, gone are the square, boringly stitched together structures, gone -- thank god! -- are the arbitrary beeps and burps. This music has soul. This music explores the sonic and textural possibilities of the genre. This music is progressive.
Johnny Cash
Album: American V
Song: God's Gonna Cut You Down
Johnny Cash: the "Man in Black," the original badass, and the reason for my renewed interest in old-time country music. Cash is best known to the contemporary audience for his series of highly acclaimed recordings made late in his life on Rick Rubin's American Recordings label. On these albums, apart from the usual C+W / spiritual / folky fare, Cash covers -- exceedingly well, I might add -- many modern rock and pop songs. Some of these old vs new collaborations are particularly interesting. His interpretation of Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage" is freaking awesome, as is his version of Tom Waits' "Down There By The Train". And his take on Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt", recorded just months prior to his death, is particularly haunting; in my opinion even better than the original, as Cash's lifetime of experience invests a relatively simplistic lyric with arrresting depth.
Rick Rubin, who produced all of the later albums, is a fascinating character. He was the original DJ of The Beastie Boys, and later co-founded with Russell Simmons the famous early hip-hop recording company, Def Jam Records. His other great interest was hard rock music, and he was at the helm of many of the most important records of the 80s and 90s by bands as influential as Slayer, System of a Down, Rage Against the Machine, and Red Hot Chili Peppers. His unique position in the music world made him instrumental in forging a marriage between hip-hop and heavy metal music, as seen in critically acclaimed albums by The Beastie Boys, Run DMC, Public Enemy, and others. He is now co-head of Columbia Records, and in 2007 he was named one of the 100 "Most Influential People" in the world by Time Magazine. Not bad for a guy with the bushiest beard this side of Tuktoyaktuk.
My absolute favorite of Cash's later songs is his deathly take on the traditional tune, "God's Gonna Cut You Down." Rubin's influence is all over its production, stripping the song to its bare essentials: Cash, his guitar, and a chain-gang style stomp and clap. This last feature is particularly fitting for Cash, as he wore all black on stage as his way of giving voice to the poor and the powerless, and he fought hard for prisoner's rights throughout his life.
This song almost makes me believe in the wrath of God. It's that good.
Talking Heads
Album: Remain In Light
Song: Once In A Lifetime
Tom Waits once wrote a great beat-poetry laugh-out-loud downer about a man who -- caught in the sheer repetitiveness of his existence -- burns his house to the ground on a whim. He parked across the street, laughing, watching it burn, all Halloween orange and chimney red. Jonathan Demme once directed a critically acclaimed movie about a man's largely futile attempt to rise above his station, to wriggle out of the grip of suburban ennui. "Once In A Lifetime" from the Talking Heads live rockumentary, Stop Making Sense, sees Demme channeling Waits.
When I was a kid I wanted to be David Byrne, the lead singer of one of the most famous New Wave groups, Talking Heads, who were an important part of the New York CBGB scene in the late 70s. Byrne was tall, gawky, and artistic, which is what I was and what I aspired to be, respectively. He and Tina Weymouth (bass) and Chris Frantz (drums) met -- unsurprisingly -- in art school and, upon meeting Jerry Harrison (guitar)* formed the band. The band's sound was unique, with elements of world music thrown into an alternately graceful and chaotic dance of elements. Brian Eno, the album's producer, had recently introduced the band to the inspirational Fela Kuti (about whom I will blog soon), and much of Remain In Light features typical Kuti-ish cross-rhythms.
But what makes RIL truly special is "Once In A Lifetime," which reads like Sartre and sounds vaguely like the burgeoning No Wave movement. It's a groovy existentialist rant.
Same as it ever was.
By the way, Weymouth and Frantz formed a moderately successful side group in the 80s, Tom Tom Club. Which sucked ginormous donkey balls. Gross but true. Sorta the New Wave equivalent of The Beatles / Wings. All of which just goes to show that Germans love David Hasselhoff. By which I mean that David Byrne was the guiding musical and artistic influence in Talking Heads.
And finally, "Once In A Lifetime," has been sampled and/or covered by many artists over the years. Here is one of my favorites.
* Yes, that Jerry Harrison, of Modern Lovers fame. Another band that will soon be featured here.
"Dear God" not "Dear God". Just wanted to clear that up. It's not my favorite song by XTC -- that would be their great track, "Making Plans For Nigel," one of the best New Wave tunes ever. Thought the message would be appreciated, however, by those who read the blog regularly.
And leaving aside the amateurish pop-theology, it's still pretty damn good.
XTC is one of the most under-appreciated bands of the late-70s and early-80s. With every record they garnered raves in the music press yet failed time and again to find popular appeal. There's no denying that musically they are more interesting than the typical New Wave band. For example, "Sgt Rock" features a melodic line sung in d-minor while the guitar hook is in D-major, and it's that m2 f-sharp/f-natural crunch which gives an otherwise relatively simplistic pop song an appealing edge. Examples like this abound. They're also known for their willingness to explore political and religious themes -- listen to "Generals And Majors" for one of their typical efforts. (It's a banal tune, but Richard Branson appears in the video. So that's good. Oh, and once again we hear dissonance in a secondary line enlivening the song. So, ummm, that's good too.)
The band was at the height of its popularity in 1982 when the lead singer and guitarist, Andy Partridge, suffered a nervous breakdown onstage. The band never performed again, though they continued to make records for the next 20 years. If you like this track I strongly recommend listening to their album Skylarking, but their best record, in my opinion, is 1979's Drums And Wires.
Mathrock rhythmic complexity? Check. Wacked out free jazz baritone saxophone? Check. Kickass heavy metal bass? Check and mate.
Zu rocks the house and then some. An Italian trio, they've gained international celebrity in certain subterranean quarters of the musical world. They've joined forces with bands as disparate as Fatomas and The Melvins, and have recorded and toured with Mike Patton of Faith No More fame. Today's track is a live recording with Patton, but please take the opportunity to listen to the song on their solo studio album, which is at least three times cooler.
As an aside, let's take a close listen to the elephant in the Bose speaker. What is music anyway? How do we define it? All of us recognize Beethoven's Fifth Symphony as music, but some of us would argue that John Cage's 4'33"is merely conceptual and not at all musical. Similarly, while we all consider The Beatles' "Let It Be" music, some of us might listen to Zu or Lightning Bolt or Art Zoyd or any number of like-minded bands and hear nothing but noise.
When I was in grad school and conducting seminars for first years, my introductory class consisted of an exercise in both listening and in broadening musical horizons. I played an example of the classical canon -- Mozart or Schubert or Bach -- and asked the students to identify the uniquely musical elements of the composition; invariably they would arrive at a list including melody, harmony, rhythm, texture, timbre, form, and an emotive / aesthetic component. I then played compositions which were identifiably musical but which did not conform to our original definition. Gregorian chant, for example, which lacks an harmonic dimension. Or Scelsi's Quattro Pezzi Per Orchestra, each movement of which is based on a single note and which therefore lacks a melodic dimension, or at least a melody in any traditional sense of the word. As a group we then narrowed our definition of music -- and by extension expanded the possibilities of what might rightly be described as music -- to texture, timbre, form and aesthetics. It's important to note that this definition is based not on the way sounds are manipulated, but rather on the inherent qualities of the sound itself and our emotional response to it. And we therefore had provided ourselves with the tools to analyse modern composition: the skill with which the composer configured and reconfigured texture, timbre, form, and aesthetics.
Cage's 4'33" was my litmus test for the ability of my students to expand their musical horizons. When they came to a group understanding that the composition is not in fact a meditation on silence but rather a deep insistence to listen, to become aware of the music inherent in our surroundings, when they had the epiphany that 4'33" conformed in all ways to our mutually agreed upon definition of music, I ended the lesson.
So, is Art Zoyd music? Damn straight. Is Zu music? Yup. Is Lightning Bolt music? Or course it is. You may not like it. You may despise it. You may have to resist the urge to jab steak knives into your ears. But it is, without any doubt, music. And that, my friends, is the final word.
And the winner for "Most Elitist" popular music ensemble of the modern rock era goes to...drum roll please...Art Zoyd! Quite a coup for this plucky little band that manages to make several musical genres equally inaccessible. This, after its surprising runner-up in that ever-popular category, "Most Pretentious," makes Art Zoyd a serious contender year in and year out!
Art Zoyd has an interesting history. Led by the great Henry Cow, The Rock In Opposition (RIO) movement emerged in the late 70s as a response to the failure of the mainstream music industry to recognize its music as viable, or more to the point as profitable. Henry Cow, an English ensemble, recruited four other like-minded European bands to join them to form RIO, and together they made music that they dubbed "what the commercial labels don't want you to hear." Membership in the group was highly selective, based in part upon maintaining "musical excellence," a decision made collectively by the existing band members. Three other ensembles managed to make the grade over the years, one of which was Art Zoyd.
RIO does not imply a single style of music. In fact, it is almost obscenely varied in its output, though the exploration of unusual sonorities and textures are commonplace. Phase IV evokes modern classical music more than anything, though at times it seems to lack scope and perhaps even diligence in this regard. This lack of rigor renders the music inert, and I must admit that I do not consider it great classical music. It remains compelling however, due to its willingness to fuse these elements with idiomatic jazz and rock gestures. It should be noted that "Derniére Danse" is slightly atypical in my opinion; if you want to explore Art Zoyd's music further, please click on this link.
Oh, by the way, Kris introduced me to these guys as well. I'm beginning to think that he should write this blog. Damn you, Amundson.
Just finished watching the final episode of Lost. So good. Loved the poetic symmetry of the ending, Jack going back to the bamboo fields where he first opened his eyes, where he was -- so to speak -- born, to die, to close his eyes for the last time. A fitting conclusion to one of the greatest ever TV series.
Died Pretty has nothing to do with Lost, apart from its general awesomeness. Actually, the band falls into that category of artistic influences that seem quite profound at the time, but that in retrospect are simply pretty darn good. Perhaps like the television show? Time will tell.
Aussie rockers, Died Pretty was a mainstay of the Sydney scene in the 80s, but unlike their contemporaries like Hoodoo Gurus and Midnight Oil it never managed international success. Not surprising, I suppose, given the music's general lack of "prettiness" -- the vocals are an acquired taste, and the guitar work ranges from tasteful and refined to atonal cacophony (cf the lengthy solo in our featured track) -- but it is this same quality that makes it compelling, that elevates it into a different class altogether. Also refreshing is the production.
The 80s. Sigh. How often I have rued the misfortune of my birth, being forced to come of age in this joyless decade. Television dominated by Cosby and his clones. Movies ruled by John Hughes and his false, forced, sentimental vision of youth. Execrable fashion. And really really shitty music. Music producers were intent upon making every song sound exactly the same. Everything was so fucking clean: the same spotless but utterly vapid and soulless vocals, the same hyper-forward-in-the-mix snare and kick bass, the same clichéd synthesizers. Boring as hell. Its only redeeming quality was that it made any different approach to production even more interesting in comparison, as is certainly the case here.
Thanks, by the way and once again, to Kris for helping me out with the blog. The embedded videos are his contribution as are many other goodies which will be introduced in the coming days. Please visit his blog for more helpful tips.
The Regina Folk Festival, awesome without fail, is a mere 10 weeks away. I'm not quite as excited about this year's lineup -- there's no Iron and Wine-like "would give my left testicle to see them" band on the docket -- but it definitely has its high points.
We lived in Victoria for five years in the mid- to late-90s. One of the couples we befriended had a little girl, Beth, 6-ish, blonde hair, blue eyes, dimples, cute as a button. One day our friends hosted a dinner party, to which several of their relatives were invited. Beth looked a pretty picture in her floral print dress reserved for just those sorts of occasions, clutching a favorite doll, hair specially washed and combed. She was doted upon accordingly. After supper, the cute little moppet's grandma -- as grandmas are wont to do -- asked for a song. Beth looked down. I don't wanna. Grandma insisted. Any song will do. Beth chewed her lip for a moment, then looked up and smiled. I know one song. Well, let's hear it! And the little girl, all sugar and spice, everything nice, chimed in her delicate quavering soprano: "There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes / Jesus Christ died for nothing I suppose."
Dunno if Grandma liked it or not.*
John Prine, country folk legend, and the author of said refrain, is a headliner at the 2010 folk festival. While I'm not his biggest fan, he wrote several songs that still manage to finagle their way onto my mix CDs. "Sam Stone" is my favorite, and not just cos I get to tell that anecdote when discussing it. "Sam Stone" is a poignant narrative that seems as relevant today as ever.
From a technical standpoint, listen to the way that Prine sings just fractionally ahead of the beat throughout most of the song, providing a sense of quiet desperation, of inertia, to the simple melody and harmony. We've talked about the "flow" of a hip-hop MC, the way in which he stretches and shrinks the rhythms within the beats. Prine provides the folk correlate. Good stuff.
Incidentally, while our featured track is my favorite, Prine's most famous song is likely "Illegal Smile". I'm sure that some of you will be able to relate.
When I woke up this morning, things were lookin' bad Seem like total silence was the only friend I had Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down... and won And it was twelve o'clock before I realized That I was havin' .. no fun But fortunately I have the key to escape reality And you may see me tonight with an illegal smile It don't cost very much, but it lasts a long while Won't you please tell the man I didn't kill anyone No I'm just tryin' to have me some fun
* Said incident is true, though it reads like a bad joke.
Cage The Elephant
Album: Cage The Elephant In One Ear (album)
Alright. Enough fey twee shit. Enough experimental rock. It's all good, of course, but sometimes you gotta spaz out to straight up rock 'n' roll. When the itch hits you just gotta scratch. The White Stripes are good in a pinch. The Hives too. But these days no band cranks my handle as much as those snotty Kentucky-bred garage fiends, Cage the Elephant.
The soul of the band is the Shultz brothers -- Matthew (singer) and Brad (rhythm guitar). Matthew, whose vocal prowess might charitably be described as "limited," is a hell of a front man. Watch any of Cage the Elephant's live shows and you will invariably see him thrashing around onstage to the point of sheer exhaustion. At times this makes it difficult for him to sing...but frankly that's not always the greatest loss. Besides, listening to him gasp out the vocals only adds to the sense of desperation: rock and roll, do or die. Brad, on the other hand, spends most of his time hunched over his guitar in a state of quasi-ecstatic bliss, hacking away like a retarded lumberjack. But it's cool. Trust me.
Remarkable what three chords, a crazy-catchy hook, and a decent rhythm section will get ya. If you listen to this tune at work, I urge you to nod your head politely to the beat. If you listen to this at home, however, I recommend getting naked and throwing yourself around your living room like a rock-fueled banshee. It's cleansing.
1990-ish, mid-January, Louis' Pub, closing in on midnight. Too much beer, not enough food. Wobbly as fuck. Stumble home. Frigid. Get to University Crescent and decide that it would help if I rested. Which I did. For several hours on a crunchy snow-covered lawn. Woke up feeling like the Alien alien was forcing his way out of my ears. But didn't lose any of my fingers or toes to frostbite. A minor miracle.
The reason I was at Louis' that night? The reason for my joyous over-indulgence? The Rheostatics. The greatest rock band in Canadian history, led by the inimitable Martin Tielli. The Rheostatics were successful from an artistic standpoint primarily because of the musical tension between the pop/country influenced Dave Bidini and the artsier, more experimentally-oriented Tielli. The Lennon and McCartney of Canadian music.
Since the band's retirement, Tielli has produced several interesting records, and a couple of absolutely stunning songs. He's a great guitarist, betraying influences ranging from jazz to flamenco to classical. And sure, at times he's too artsy for his own good, and at times his music is pretentious to the point of being un-listenable. Granted. But when he's on he creates beautifully evocative, wistful music. This is perhaps my favorite of Tielli's songs, with "From The Reel" a close second. Also, for you songwriters out there, I strongly recommend Poppy Salesman as a crash course in the art of melody.
Moments ago I started to write about Owen Pallett and his glorious goodness...and then I realized that the blog seems to have morphed into "The Sensitive Man's Guide to Music." At least recently. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but life is all about balance, right? In that spirit I offer the following 180 seconds of beautifully orchestrated chaos.
The Locust is one of my favorite noise rock bands, and at its heart is the asymmetrically beating drum of the fantastically gifted Gabe Serbian (aka Gabe Locust). Our featured video is a single tight shot of our hero spastically attacking his kit. But, like, in a beautifully musical way. Natch.
Most critics locate the Locust in a musical space intersecting powerviolence, mathcore, grindcore, and experimental rock. But what the hell does that mean?! I mean...really. C'mon. It's not just lazy scholarship, it's a load of nonsense. The truth is that multi-genre labels like this muddy the waters; they hinder us from engaging the music in a real way. The Locust reminds me more of Ornette Coleman than any single mathcore or grindcore band, and in my opinion they are best approached in this way. Indeed, there is something very jazzy in the rapidly changing time signatures and fascinating internal rhythms. Musically, "AOTKPTA" is vastly complex, but an astute listener will hear several thematic (not melodic) strands evolve throughout. These guys are really good musicians, and this composition is far more than sheer randomness.
Then there are the vocals. Those who prefer story telling or even, well...you know...words and stuff will be sorely disappointed. But that's sorta the point. As lead singer and bassist Justin Pearson says, "I want to change the way people perceive music." The Locust is a deliberate attempt to subvert conventional music making. And that's more than good enough for me.
Back to "The Sensitive Show" next post. I promise. Word.
Clash of the Titans is big, dumb, noisy, vacuous, insipid, sloppy, joyless, and clichéd. Dirty Projectors isn't.
Dirty Projectors has been labelled "experimental rock" in the same vein as Grizzly Bear and Animal Collective, and I suppose the description has some merit. The band's music is, after all, somewhat more abstract than typical pop fare. But when I listen to this tune my first impression is of crystalline purity, of utter simplicity, despite the superficial business of the music. Each melodic and harmonic line is clean and vividly distinct. Add even a single strummed guitar chord and the song would be diminished.
There is something in Dirty Projectors that reminds me of the polyphonic music of the late Renaissance and Baroque periods. Not in terms of melody or harmony, of course, but there is a textural similarity in my opinion, a fundamental clarity in the way the music is composed.
Or maybe I'm reaching. Whatever. I like it. And at least it's not a shitty Hollywood spring blockbuster.
p.s. Thanks to Kris for re-introducing me to the band. Good on ya.
Charlotte Gainsbourg, daughter of? Yup. Charlotte Gainsbourg, actress? Sure. Charlotte Gainsbourg, brilliant pop singer? Nah. Wait. Seriously?
Yup. Damn. This is so good. Can't even begin to describe what a revelation this is for me. She's great in Antichrist, granted, and she's notorious for her creepy duet with her dad, but there's no way in hell I could've anticipated how interesting and drop-dead cool her music is. I mean, I didn't even know that she was a contemporary musician.
I fucking love these sorts of "Jesus what the hell was that?!" finds. Gonna buy her CD this afternoon.
IRM is a collaboration between Gainsbourg and Beck, which is also a revelation, but perhaps not surprising given Beck's album Sea Change. (For more info on this connection, check out the final link in the "Serge Gainsbourg" post below.) IRM reminds me somewhat of the Nico / Velvet Underground collaboration, chanteuse backed by rock godliness. You gotta check it out.
Incidentally, Gainsbourg and Beck performed much of the album live on the great radio program, "Morning Comes Eclectic," KCRW (Santa Monica NPR affliate). You can watch the entire broadcast here.
Lastly but not leastly, while the Letterman performance is notable for many things, my favorite moment is when Dave wanders over to the band and, after addressing another young women, introduces himself to our heroine with, "Are you Charlotte?" Guess he's not a Lars von Trier fan.
Serge Gainsbourg
Album: Histoire de Melody Nelson Melody
Imagine for a moment that you're a beautiful and talented singer, one of the world's most recognizable celebrities. Now imagine that you're appearing on a popular French talk show to advertise your latest album. Now imagine that Serge Gainsbourg is sitting adjacent to you on the obligatory leather talk show club chairs. Now watch this. Yikes. What an oily motherfucker. I love that after he makes his ridiculous -- and I'm quite certain completely phony -- apology the crowd erupts in spontaneous applause.
The reason for this odd behavior? Well, first of all Gainsbourg was one of the strangest dudes in popular music in the 60s and 70s, as unlikely a star as you can possibly imagine. He was also a chronic alcoholic, notorious for bizarre but oddly fascinating displays of public inappropriateness. And second of all, the Jerry-Lewis-loving French are weird as hell. Not like Norwegians. Norwegians are awesome.
In some circles, Gainsbourg is considered one of the most influential pop musicians ever. His songs are highly sexual, full of mischievous word play and double-entendres, and the music itself betrays many different influences, ranging from jazz to synth pop. "Melody" is from his greatest work, L'Histoire de Melody Nelson, a concept album about an encounter between an older man and a 16 year old girl.
Also, if the tune seems at all familiar to you, take a moment to listen to this. Influential indeed.
Oh, one last thing. In 1984 he wrote and recorded a song called "Lemon Incest" with his then 12 year old daughter, Charlotte. (Yes, thatCharlotte Gainsbourg.) Gah. Sooooo creepy.
I'm never quite sure how to approach PJ Harvey's music. That is, I like it and all, but I don't like it as much as I think I should like it. If ya know what I mean. For me, listening to her is the aural equivalent of eating brussel sprouts; I know it's healthy, but it leaves a faintly bitter aftertaste.
Why? Why don't I like her music more? It's a bit of a mystery. Harvey isn't a great melodist, granted, but hell I like noise rock, so that's obviously a lame excuse. I must admit that I don't respond well to her overly dramatic stage presence. It all seems a bit artificial, as if she's telling me what to feel, as opposed to engaging me in conversation. And she seems crazy pretentious, which I can't fucking stand.
Anyway. This tune rocks, so I'm willing to put up with the pretense and the artifice, at least temporarily. The idea for the song came to Harvey from a newspaper article about a woman who drowned her daughter because of her child's budding sexuality. Yup. Really pleasant stuff. But whatever. The bass line is intense, and the whispered final refrain -- "Little fish, big fish / Swimming in the water / Come back here man / Give me my daughter" -- leaves me all goosebumpy. The shimmering percussion plays well against that meaty slabbed bass line. And there's a bluesy element to the music, which is not surprising given Harvey's acknowledgement of old time blues as a strong influence. She cites Captain Beefheart as another formative favorite, which is pretty damn cool.
By the way, Harvey has sorta dropped off the cultural map, but she was widely regarded as one of the greatest musicians of the 90s. To Bring You My Love was released in 1995 and was cited as album of the year by many influential critics, and it ranked third on Spin magazine's top 90 albums of the 90s, behind only Nirvana (Nevermind) and Public Enemy (It Takes A Nation Of Millions...). Excellent company.
Recently, the blog has been as heavy as a steaming pile of turducken. Time to cleanse the palette with a citrus-y sorbet.
Vijay Iyer is a pretty cool cat. Undergraduate degree in mathematics and physics from Yale. Ph.D. in physics from UCal Berkeley. Classically trained violinist. Self-taught jazz pianist. Currently on the faculty at New York University and the School for Improvisational Music. Not bad.
His Trio is a crisp little ensemble: piano, double bass, and drums. Iyer favors clarity whenever possible, even in his original and extremely complex compositions. As here, his arrangements often sound quite contemporary due to the heaviness of the bass and the clean melodic lines.
I recently watched a documentary in which Iyer referred to jazz as "spontaneous architecture," which, apart from being an abso-fricken-awesome metaphor, may also be the best definition of the genre I've heard. Historicity itself features songs chosen for their "disruptive influence." In this case, M.I.A.'s crossover hit, "Galang."
Not much more to say. It's light. It's fresh. No bitter aftertaste. Yum.
Richie Havens
Album: Woodstock: Music from the Original Soundtrack and More Freedom
The summer of 1967. The Summer of Love. A harbinger of two momentous occasions: my birth, and Woodstock.
When I was in my late teens there was a pervasive cultural nostalgia for all things 60s. Tie-dyed shirts and paisley prints were back in style. Movie producers were obsessed. Many like-minded auteurs explored 60s themes; Oliver Stone, for example, wrote and directed The Doors and Platoon during this time. Television and print media peppered their stories with references to the decade of peace, love, and hippie-dippiness. The ubiquitous "100 Best Albums of All Time" lists were dominated by 60s icons: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Neil Young.
Woodstock, the album, was seemingly everywhere in those years. No hipster worth his salt was without it. And really, why not? Woodstock was a cultural milestone, regarded by some as the defining event of its era, and the music itself is more often than not fantastic. Or at least it can safely be said that for every dud -- YouTube "Sha Na Na" if you dare -- there is at least one gem. Like Richie Havens.
A great ranging bear of a man, Havens possesses one of the most soulful baritones in the history of popular music. His range is limited, but he is consistently interesting within that narrow span. Interestingly, his musicianship has improved over the years. His voice has lost none of its defining rasp, but he has greater control over it and his phrasing is impeccable. Shivery good at times.
Havens is perhaps best known, however, for his frenetic and quasi-improvisational guitar playing. He plays in an open-C tuning and uses his massive thumb to create barre chords. Sort of a Jimi Hendrix type thing, but only on rhythm guitar.
He also wrote a popular anti-war folk song, "Handsome Johnny" with the first black actor to win a Best Supporting Actor Oscar, Louis Gossett Jr. Hella sexy.
Alan Vega and Mercury Rev were a couple of New York post-punk thugs known for brandishing bicycle chains onstage and physically assaulting their audience. Nice. Highly confrontational, their gigs could just as easily be defined as performance art.
"Frankie Teardrop" is the story of a man who has a tenuous grip on reality. He murders his family and then, realizing what he has done, kills himself. Your classic boy meets girl tale.
The music is basically two synth notes repeated over and over and over and over and over. And over. And over. Listening to it today I get a renewed sense of impending violence. And once the deed is done, Vega's anguished screams puncture the suffocating atmosphere, providing terrifying counterpoint.
Once upon a time, there was a guy trumpeted as the next Dylan. He had the street cred; he could write a few good sentences in succession; he looked the part. All was set. Or so it seemed. He made a few nebbish records, plucked Courtney Cox out of a gaggle of girls, and ultimately became every jingoist's wet dream. A pretty sad ending to our tale. Except that he did no such thing. Okay, he did pluck Courtney Cox out of a gaggle of girls. But who wouldn't?
Courtney Cox's new sitcom, Cougartown, is pretty damn funny.
Springsteen the popular myth and Springsteen the reality are actually pretty dissimilar. To the superficial and/or hopelessly stupid, "Born in the USA" is a simple, beautiful paean to the greatness that is our elephant to the south; to the astute listener it's a howl of anger directed at those very same blind nationalists.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Springsteen is a great artist. He's not. And watching him do a synth driven jig while a stadium full of Oxy-5'ed teens cheer his every booty shaking move is cringe worthy, to say the least. There's no denying that somewhere along the way, Springsteen lost the credibility -- an everyman who spoke out for the plight of the unheard masses -- that made him special in the first place. But for a while he made absolutely stunning music.
"State Trooper" is from Springsteen's best album, Nebraska. It's a haunting depiction of a desperate man with violent intentions begging a trailing cop car not to stop him. It's about as spare as a song can get. You can hear the scrape of the pick on the strings. Downstrokes only. Partially muted. Bottom two strings. The music has an inexorable quality, an insistent inertia that speaks to a terrifying destiny. And then the voice. A pained, almost hoarse whisper.
Brilliant.
And it's almost certainly the only popular song ever written in homage to Suicide's horrifying "Frankie Teardop." See the blog post above for more info.
I'm not a big fan of Monet, but I absolutely lurveMatisse. Henry Moore ain't my cup of tea, but Barbara Hepworth is the sizzle in my steak. Pynchon leaves me cold, while Vonnegut warms the ol' cockles. Why one and not the other? Ummmm...dunno. All are regularly cited as exemplary, but some invoke in me an emotional response while others I find almost boring. Go figure. I'm sure if I knew more about painting, sculpture, and literature I could better analyse this and come up with a rational answer, but as it stands my responses are a mystery.
I've already mentioned that electronica is my least favorite of all musical genres. I prefer the human touch. And all that bleeping and blurping gets awfully old, awfully quickly. Occasionally, however, I hear a band that seems to maintain a sense of humanity in spite of itself. Shpongle is one such group.
Shpongle was recommended by a friend. Repeatedly. In fact, it wasn't until he wrote the name in permanent marker on an empty Coke bottle that I managed to remember the name long enough to suss out its music. It characterizes a sub-genre of electronic music called "psybient," and "Star Shpongled Banner" in particular is an example of "downtempo" psybient, in which slow beats and loops are manipulated to hypnotic effect. Good tripping out music, from what I've been told.
Which brings me to my point. Why, I wonder, do I prefer Shpongle to...oh...let's say Aphex Twin? From one point of view the question is akin to the mystery of a preference for Matisse over Monet, especially in that superficially the music is quite similar. But while Aphex Twin meanders -- we hear the same sounds repeated and combined in much the same way throughout the tune -- Shpongle offers a sense of evolution or growth, or perhaps more simply, a sense of narrative arc. By analogy, Aphex Twin is a collection of sweet sounding words, an interesting but necessarily limited refrigerator magnet poem, while Shpongle is a relatively well-defined short story.
This is a good demystifying start, I suppose, but I must admit that my inexperience with electronic music leaves me grasping at straws a wee bit. The best I can offer, I think, is that much as I respond emotionally to Vonnegut and not to Pynchon, so too does Shpongle elicit an emotional response while Aphex Twin, for the most part, bores me.
I should also note that "Star Shpongled Banner" is particularly interesting from a musical standpoint in its world music connotations. Indian ragas comprise much of the melodic element, while tabla provides a polyrhythmic component to the basic groove. I really enjoy the tune's mellow vibe; perfect music to chill out to.
Lie back and smoke it if you've got it, dude. Peace out.
Stiff Little Fingers was born from "The Troubles," the ongoing political, religious, and social debate in Northern Ireland. But whereas the primary conflict was ideological -- unionist Protestants and nationalist Catholics arguing over the constitutional status of the state -- Stiff Little Fingers were more concerned about the plight of the average person. They claimed, and rightly so in my opinion, that neither side held the moral high ground, primarily because the working class was being fucked by the often violent terms with which the debate itself was being waged.
"Inflammable material is planted in my head / A suspect device that's left 2000 dead." Thus begins "Suspect Device," perhaps my single favorite punk song. Compared with the facile, quasi-anarchic rebellion of The Sex Pistols, Stiff Little Fingers offer a sophisticated political argument, a social commentary worthy of George Steiner himself.
(As an aside, as a grad student in Musicology, I often introduced Steiner's Bluebeard's Castle to the undergrads in my lab seminars as a way of approaching seemingly impenetrable post-WWII music. There is something about Steiner's approach to Adorno's oft-cited assertion "It is barbaric to write poetry after Auschwitz" that I find both terrifying and all too real. If you ever have a free couple of days, I strongly recommend reading it.)
"They take away our freedom / In the name of liberty." Truer now than ever. Backed by the Jake Burns' spitting vocals, the driving guitar and drums, and a surprisingly supple bass line, "Suspect Device" is a profound response to the dogma of its time.
Right. This one ain't gonna be easy. Sorta like admitting to inveterate nose-picking. Or professing a love for Stephen Harper. No matter which way I parse it, it's gonna seem more than a bit creepy.
Soooo....yeah. Britney Spears. Poster-child for all that is wrong in popular music. Style over substance. Corporate over DIY. Dumbness over smartitude. A self-sabotaging train wreck.
We all know the story. But while it seems like everyone over the age of 25 and the vast majority of media luxuriate in Schadenfreude-esque excess at her misery, I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness and a certain amount of empathy for Spears. I mean, she was only a kid when she implored us, repeatedly, to "hit me baby." Sure, it might be argued that she was old enough to know better, but when the world is being offered to you it's hard to say no, even if it means being labelled a dumbass sexpot.
There's something fragile about her. Spears has created a monster that she is completely unable to control. It's tragic, in a way. I really do feel sorry for her.
But none of that has anything to do with her kickass single, "Toxic." I mean, let's be fair about this. Spears' arena is entirely big business and in particular big media, but that doesn't mean that she isn't surrounded by supremely talented artists. The production here is flawless. It possesses a sort of over-the-top indulgence which is rarely my cup of tea, but which in this setting works completely. Crisp percussion. Driving rhythm guitar. An appealingly exotic melody. And, well, c'mon. She looks great too. Doesn't hurt, right?
A guilty pleasure. Sue me.
For something completely different, Hurra Torpedo are a bunch of badass Norwegians with a love of pop culture and household appliances. They're best known for their splendid punk take on the otherwise wholly insipid Bonnie Tyler-penned "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Watch that and tell me you aren't in the presence of genius. I dare you. Their cover of "Toxic" doesn't approach that level of absurdity, but I thought you'd enjoy it anyway. It's a nice counterpoint to Dame Spears at any rate.
So I was sitting at home, hanging out with my kids, watching The Wizards of Waverly Place (don't judge me), when I had an impulse to jazz it up. It happens. But I didn't feel like listening to my usual legend-inspired repertoire, so I googled "New Jazz," which forwarded me to "Nu Jazz," which led me to Jaga Jazzist.
There is nothing I enjoy more than finding a new band that really speaks to me, and I've been rocking out to Jaga Jazzist all afternoon. The first tune I listened to was the funky "Animal Chin" (accompanied by its delightfully weird and wonderful video) and I was smitten. A radical fusion of cool jazz with fat beats and spiky electronica. Crazy good. Since then it's been a track-by-track analysis of their new album, One-Armed Bandit.
I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that the band has a lot going for it. First advantage: They're as good live as on CD. The litmus test of any musically astute group. Second advantage: They make prog rock sound good. Not easy to do. Third advantage: The petite flautist also plays tuba. Now that's sexy. Fourth advantage: At one point in "One-Armed Bandit" distorted electric guitar and low tessitura flute double each other. I mean, like, what the hell?! Sheer orchestrational awesomeness. Fifth advantage: Their drummer looks like ZZ Top's bastard son. Sixth advantage: If I'm not mistaken, the acoustic double bassist can electrically fuzzify his instrument. Or something. Seventh advantage: They're Norwegian. And, as we all know, Norway is the best fucking country on the planet.
You may have noticed that my Blogger name is "SufjanBeam". The Sufjan part I've already covered, and now comes the Beam.
Sam Beam is a musician from the southern US who records under the name Iron and Wine, and who is, in my opinion, the best of the "new Americana" folk movement. As you rightly have guessed he is also one of my favorite current artists, along with Sufjan Stevens and DM Stith. (By the way, I couldn't figure out a melodious way to incorporate Stith into my Blogger nickname. If you have a suggestion, please pass it along.)
You know, I've been going to live events for as long as I can remember; several moments stand out. Seeing the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra under the great Simon Rattle perform Le Sacre in London. Bobby Wiseman (former Blue Rodeo keyboardist -- don't hold it against him) at Amigos on a miserable winter night. Fugazi at an all-ages show in Saskatoon back in the day. And Sam Beam at the 2009 Regina Folk Festival. An absolutely stunning performance.
The guy looks like Jesus. If I had one wish right now I would be sorely tempted to ask for a beard as utterly fantastic as his. Shallow, I know, but I think I'm entitled to my priorities. He's tiny, too. And he likes to wear sweater vests. Despite these obvious drawbacks, Beam has a riveting stage presence. He's funny as hell, about as laid back as a La-Z boy recliner, and when he started to sing in Regina in his whispered wispy way the entire crowd went dead silent. It really was a magical night. He had us all in his thrall.
His guitar playing is excellent too, in a way similar to The Tallest Man On Earth: not at all flashy but in perfect control. A musician's musician. Enjoy.
I realized after spending a few minutes reviewing the blog that I had yet to feature world music. Now I'll be the first to admit that I don't know a lot about world music, but what I do know about it, and what I've heard, I like. So here we are.
I first stumbled across the Balinese Monkey Chant as an undergraduate. My composition professor had encouraged me to expand my musical horizon by listening to world music, and in particular to the gamelan. A gamelan is an Indonesian ensemble that consists of a distinct set of instruments, usually percussive, that's tuned to itself. The music has a characteristically delicate sound, and the rhythms and textures can be extremely complex.
It wasn't long before the Balinese Monkey Chant became a favorite. Obviously there's an appealing dramatic element to it, but it's also interesting from a musical standpoint. The poly-rhythms propel the music while the repeating vocal lines and percussion provide an ostinato-like solidity.
In some circles, the popularization of gamelan had a tremendous impact upon 20th century composition: John Cage's works for prepared piano, for example. At times the gamelan is incorporated wholesale, and at other times more subtly. It has also been featured by some popular musicians too.
By the way, if you haven't seen Baraka I heartily recommend doing so.
The killer bass line sucks you in and James Chance's deranged vocals and atonal spaz sax spit you out. It's equal parts Ornette Coleman-style free jazz, New Wave inspired propulsive rhythm section, and mutant art installation. A winning combination.
James Chance was one of the foremost members of the New York "No Wave" scene of the late 70s and early 80s. The "No Wave" movement does not really imply a musical style; the term encompasses a wide range of artistic media. It is perhaps best thought of as a philosophy, or even more simply as a temperament. Underground musicians, artists, and film makers responded to the burgeoning commercialism of the New Wave and punk scenes by making art that was deliberately provocative and anti-commercial. The music tended to incorporate fundamental elements of New Wave style which were then ground into grit by the abrasive surface.
I find the spirit of this rebellion quite courageous and thrilling. And necessary in a healthy artistic environment. But, it must be said, I don't always find the music all that much fun to listen to.
"Contort Yourself" rocks, however.
And a fun fact: Chance also recorded as "James White" and under this name released "Contort Yourself" as a quasi-disco track. It didn't sell.
Marilyn Manson? A dimpled blonde moppet with a pretty pink bow in her hair. Cannibal Corpse? Charmed, I'm sure. Norwegian death metal? A leisurely stroll amongst the spring daffodils. Take 'em. Take 'em all. Take 'em and stack 'em up, one on top of the other, until they form a mighty Sauron-esque edifice, a thrusting tower of malice.
They ain't got nothin' on "Spinal Meningitis." As close to pure evil as anything I have ever heard.
Dear god. Creepy as fuck.
Actually, Ween's Chocolate and Cheese is a fairly excellent album. Voodoo Lady rocks. I Can't Put My Finger On It is appropriately weird. Take Me Away leaves me giddy. And the Ween brothers are damn good musicians.
And it's obvious that in their spare time they torture puppies for fun.
